Trick of Fate
by Furrina
Summary: Neville is drifting... squandering his time and his inheritance in mindless sex and mindnumbing alcohol. Draco is broken... alone, scared and mute. This is the story of how they find each other. Prequel to "It is You I have Loved All Along" [Warnings: MPreg, Rape, Dub Con, Magic Loss, Memory Alteration... There's a reason it's rated 'M']
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

Draco Malfoy stood at the centre of a vast circle... scared, alone, eyes downcast. Every time he raised his eyes he found himself being scrutinized by those piercing red eyes that haunted his waking nightmares.

He stole a sideways glance at his father, guilt written over his pale, scared face. _Well, he should be guilty_, Draco thought maliciously. _He should be made to see my destruction. He is the one who has brought it on us, after all._ He gulped as he felt something prodding into his thoughts and steeled himself against the intrusion, taking care to not reveal too much.

He knew what was expected of him. His Father had made no secret of the fact. But what he had been asked to do… he couldn't –_wouldn't – _do his bidding for once. _This_ would be his Grand Finale… his last act of "FUCK YOU, Father!"

"Draco," the Dark Lord hissed, as his eyes… his mind continued to poke around Draco's brain. "Do you submit your allegiance to our cause?" he asked in a voice that left no room for argument.

"Yes, My Lord," he stated resolutely, with as much confidence as he could muster.

"Master…" a quite voice broke the pin drop silence. Draco turned in direction of the voice. His mother... scared, wandless… flanked by Aunt Bellatrix and Alecto Carrow on either side, their wands digging into her hips - the only one who had dared to protest his initiation from the very start.

"Narcisssssa," Dark Lord hissed, his eyes sparkling as they turned to her. Draco silently prayed to whoever may listen… Merlin… Salazar… hell, right now, even _Potter_… that his _mother_ be spared of the Dark Lord's wrath. "You may speak your piece," Lord Voldemort hissed as his eyes finished their examination.

"He…" Narcissa Malfoy protested. "My Lord, Draco… he's an Innocent… He can't take the Mark. He's an Innocent, my Lord."

The red eyes sparked in evil mirth as they turned to him… a hairless eyebrow cocking in amusement as if to say, _Really?_

Draco cringed. _Innocent… Virgin…_ The Mark couldn't be taken by a virgin, everyone knew that. The purity of an Innocent's magic clashed with the Dark Mark and not only killed the Taker, but also the Marker. And an underage Innocent was practically untouchable without his Patriarch's consent. _Look what had happened with __**Potter **__the First Time._ So, he wasn't just going to die, he was taking the despicable Snake-Lord with him. He had taken some comfort in that fact when preparing for this day.

But now, instead of letting him die… innocent, pure… a Hero – _The-Boy-Who-Died-But-Took-BaldyVoldy-With-Him_ – his mother had just given the Dark Lord ammunition for his destruction. _Or maybe she hasn't realized just how desperate Father _is _to get back into their __**Lord's**__ good graces._

"Is that so, Lucius?" The Dark Lord asked, his tiny red eyes sparkling with mirth, as they turned on his father.

"Y…ye...yes, My Lord," Lucius stammered, desperately looking around, waiting for someone to speak up. Draco saw his mother's eyes widen as she realized her mistake. But it was too late now.

The Lord grinned, a toothy grin that made sick to his stomach, and flicked his wand. Draco found himself bent over a conjured block, arms and legs chained to the floor, restricting his movements. He knew what was going to happen. He had seen Amycus, Rudolphus and Rabastan "breaking" prisoners this way. He had heard their screams at night, lying awake in these very walls.

He looked at his father and looked away in disgust. His father's subservience to the Dark Lord was appalling. He wasn't even lifting a finger to protect his son… his _only_ son… his only _heir_. His mother had visibly paled. Bella and Alecto were now gripping her arms… their fingers probably leaving marks in the pale skin. He couldn't even _bear_ to look in her face right now.

Bent on that block, waiting for the Dark Lord to make his move, Draco wished he could take back all those times he had insulted Potter and Longbottom about their lack of parents. Having no parents would be better having those who had literally sold their souls... and their son… to a worthless _Snake_.

He looked at the faces of people of around him – faces, that he would never forget. His aunt and uncles looking down on him with despise… Mr. Greengrass, his betrothed's father, carefully averting his eyes… Mr. Crabbe and Mr. Goyle glinting with sadistic pleasure at the spectacle before them… and Severus – black eyes expressionless and unreadable, fists balled so tight his palms were bleeding, but his face straight-laced and smirking as always, as if he was just waiting for Longbottom to blow up another cauldron – standing so still and unmoving that Draco was sure someone had cast _Petrificus Totalus_ on him.

He vaguely heard the swish of robes behind him and suddenly found himself naked from the waist down. He couldn't help the blush of shame that crept up his neck or his face burning with humiliation.

A thin finger caressed his cheek and he closed his eyes, blocking out the room, the faces… making himself numb to the fact that something was nudging at his arsehole. _I won't give him the satisfaction of hearing me scream, _he thought biting down hard on his lower lip. He tasted the coppery tang of his blood, then pain…_ lots of pain…_

Draco drifted off. Through his pain-induced haze, he barely heard, "Not an innocent now, is he, Narcissa?"


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

A thin pale figure… torn… destitute… huddled in the darkest corner of the Knockturn Alley. He didn't know who he was, where he was...

_Death Eater_, someone said, kicking him in the side. The figure curled into a foetal position, waiting for the attacks to get over. Suddenly a strong pair of hands yanked him upright. He went without a fight. _What use was fighting to him?_ _He was merely a vessel… made to do his Lord's bidding. _The hands pushed him into a side-alley and bent him over a dumpster, his robes thrown above his head. He went limp as he felt something leaking from his arse cheeks.

_Fates are kind today_, he thought as something blunt nudged at his loosened hole. _Thank You,_ he wanted to say to whoever was standing behind him. _You've been very kind, Sir._ But he couldn't. He had forgotten how to speak… it seemed so long ago that he had actually _spoken _to someone. He had a name too, something he was known as in his previous life, but now… even that eluded him.

The person finished and spat on his back, "Death Eater scum". He nodded to himself and corrected his robes. His arse would've hurt if he had any semblance of pain. But he was in pain all the time, so he paid no mind to it. Instead, he sank down on his knees and vomited.

He had been vomiting a lot these past few days. Usually they were accompanied by severe cramps to his stomach and throat… like someone were _Crucio-ing_ him. Maybe they were, but he couldn't be too sure. _What use was knowing?_

He shakily stood up and lurched out the side-alley, towards the eatery. Sometimes, the kindly woman there let him rummage through their dumpsters just before they closed for the night. If he was lucky, maybe he would find a piece of stale bread. Even that caused the vomiting, but at least he wouldn't be hungry anymore.

He held onto the walls to stay upright. The fatigue was finally getting to him. _I'm strong,_ he reminded himself_._ _I can survive anything_.

The ruckus in pub on the opposite side of the street caught his attention. For some reason, he felt drawn to it. He left the wall and moved towards the noise… like a wandering moth to a flame… heading slowly towards his doom. His head started spinning and his vision started to fade. _I'm a survivor_, he told himself but even those words seemed to have lost their meaning. He felt himself stumbling. Too powerless to do anything, he let himself fall.

Someone's foot connected none-to-gently with the side of his head. Then blackness took over.

* * *

"And Stay Out," a shrill voice cut through his happy buzz and cold hands pushed him out the Exit. "Decorated War Hero or not, I will not have you blackening my doorstep again."

Neville stuck his tongue at the offending voice and flipped her off. "Fucking _Harpy_," he shouted at the closed doors and kicked the lower step. A sharp sting passed through his toes, reducing his buzz even further. "FUCK. YOU!" Neville yelled and turned around.

_Who needed them anyway?_ He would find somewhere else to his spend his time and his money. After all, he had a whole lot of both now that he had finally come into his inheritance and there was no Gran to question him anymore. He was free… he could do whatever he wanted. And right now, what he wanted was a Firewhiskey… or three.

He stepped off the footpath and into the road. It was too late for traffic of any sort… and only thieves and homeless wandered outside, this time of the night. He laughed at his situation… who would have thought that he, Neville Longbottom, the shy Gryffindor, the sole heir of the vast Longbottom fortune and a decorated War hero no less, would be sleeping on the roads with the riff-raff of the society, because even _that_ was better than the depressing emptiness of his Manor.

He often wondered if he should just sell everything and move somewhere far far away… away from all this, away from the memories. But then, a new day dawned… clean and crisp… one more day to squander his time and money in mindless sex and numbing alcohol. At least, the numbness was better than _feeling_… _remembering_.

His foot struck something. He stumbled, falling face first into the road. _The hell?_ _Who the fuck grew a rock in the middle of the street?_He lumbered back to his feet and kicked the rock, hard.

The rock mewled, a soft, low voice, but remained down. Curious, he got down on his knees and peered at it. It didn't look like a rock… not with that head. At least it looked like a head. _A person then._ _Probably another drunk… just like me._

_You should get him out of the way_, his Gryffindor nobility cut through his haze. He nodded to himself… what joy, talking to himself, because no one else cared a shite about him anyway... and reached out to pull the person upright. And pulled back with a gasp.

_Nothing… empty…_ The person was cold and empty. Empty of emotions, empty of magic… just _EMPTY_. He had the same feel a Kissed person would have. _Or someone who's magic has been drained beyond limit, _his brain helpfully reminded_._ _For example,_ _your parents._

Uncertain, he pulled out his wand, touched it to his temple and muttered the George Weasley Patented Instant Sobering Spell (_As effective as any Hangover Potion. Side-effects may include Loss of Memory, Seizures, and Cerebral Haemorrhage. Caution Advised._**Warning:** Under no circumstances to be tried on _oneself _Or performed _drunk_) He waited a few moments till his innards settled – the feeling was the same as when you Apparate for the first time, but with a lot more spinning – then turned his attention back to the problem at hand.

The second touch confirmed what his first had suspected. The familiar thrum of magic – of life – when you come in contact with another living soul was absent. The only time he remembered feeling like this was the first few years of his life around his parents. But there was something else… _something about this_ _man_… He turned the man over and recoiled in horror.

_SHITE!_ "Ma… Malfoy?" he asked, crouching closer to the ma—_Malfoy_ before him.

Malfoy mewled again. It seemed that was the only sound he could make. Neville gulped and gathered his broken schoolmate in his arms. As he stood up, he realized why Malfoy felt so empty… all of his magic seemed to have concentrated around his mid-region. The thrum of magic where their midriffs touched was electrifying.

He didn't know if it was better… or worse. He had read somewhere that magic usually sensed what was wrong with a person and subconsciously tried to correct it… heal it.

Neville tucked Malfoy even closer to his body, took a deep breath and turn on the spot.


	3. Chapter 2

**St. Mungos Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries** was a very busy place. Even in times of peace there was a little quiet around here, with Healers and patients bustling in and out at all hours. But these Post-War times were even harder.

It had been barely 4 months since the War ended and the members of both sides, though significantly lesser from the Losing Side, were still flocking over to the neutral grounds to recuperate in peace. Which is why, when a very public celebrity of the Light Side suddenly popped into the Reception area with someone who looked like they had been spit out the wrong end of a Hippogriff, at precisely 3.00 AM one warm July Wednesday, no one batted an eye.

Neville landed in well-lit reception area with his burden and considered his options. Going to the Emergency was out of question, it was already packed and a few reporters were always hovering around. And the last thing he needed was to answer unnecessary questions of the media for turning up with the missing Malfoy heir, without knowing what was wrong with him first.

Instead… he hoisted with burden securely against his chest and turned in the direction of the elevators.

-x-x-x-

The 24-Hours Spell Damage, Obliviation and Restoration Ward on the newly constructed 6th Floor had been created specifically for Non-Magical Victims of the War. The said victims, after being treated for their magical injuries, had their memories altered to explain them in a more muggle-plausible fashion and released into the muggle world, to be treated for the non-magical ones. The Specialized Healers – better known as "Doktors" – of that Ward had the highest level of Clearance, previously granted only to the Unspeakables.

Neville turned sideways and slowly pushed the door open with Malfoy's limp feet. No one except the Healers and their patients were ever allowed inside. Seeing that no one tried to blast his head off – they had heard of some reporter who had ended up in the regular Spell Damage Ward with his head transformed into a horse's after pestering a Doktor for a "straight from the horse's mouth" quotes – he pushed the door completely open and stepped inside.

-x-

Neville stood in the middle of a well-lit but completely bare room. He shook his head in confusion. _This can't be right!_ He had seen the Doktors disappearing into this very room countless number of times. He wondered if it was like the Room of Requirement. _You had to _ask_ the Room for help._

Cradling his unconscious find even more securely against his chest – the thrum of magic around their midriffs was unbearable now – he started walking up and down the room. _I need to see a Doktor_, he pleaded silently. _I need to see a Doktor… I need to see a Doktor…_

Suddenly a small black door appeared in the far wall.

Heaving a sigh of relief, Neville strode in direction of the door only to find it locked. Desperately, he kicked at the door as hard as he could. He was about to raise his foot for the fifth time, when the door suddenly yanked open and the sleep-ruffled head of Healer Agatha – one of the healers from Janus Thickey Ward – appeared through the crack.

"Mr. Longbottom, I suspect you have a good reason for waking me up in the middle of the night?" she asked irritatedly.

"I…" Neville seemed at for loss wards. _Had he accidently landed on the wrong floor and into the Healer's private quarters? _He gathered his courage. There was no time for brooding anyway… he wanted a Healer, he had one before him. "I... Yeah, I… He's unconscious. I suspect it's some type of magic-draining disease."

Healer Agatha looked at him incredulously, then peered at the man in his hands. "Is that Mr. Malfoy?" she asked quietly.

_Shite!_ He hadn't considered that the Healers might refuse treatment to a Death-Eater. "Yeah," he said, gulping down his uncertainty. "It is Draco Malfoy."

To his relief, the Healer merely nodded, any signs of sleepiness gone from her eyes and reached a steady hand towards him – Neville flinched involuntarily, reminded of that time in detention with Alecto – touched his forehead.

Suddenly, the door dissolved before his eyes. Instead of an almost sleepy Healer Agatha, he was standing face to face with a knee-length skirt and a white long-coat clad - as her name-tag stated - "Dr. Agatha", who looked somberly at him. "I'm afraid your diagnosis is correct, Mr. Longbottom," she said with in clipped tones. "Mr. Malfoy _is_ suffering from a severe magic drain. If could just place him on the bed…" she waved her hand behind him.

"What be—?" Neville turned around, and his protest died on his tongue. Instead of the bright empty room, they were standing in a dimly-lit, but well furnished ward that looked like a large dormitory. The curtains around the beds, on either side of the room, were pulled tightly, every alternate space between two beds furnished with a small chest of drawers, presumably for the patient's belongings.

The Healer helpfully pointed towards an empty bed on the far-right, indicating that he should take Draco over there.

Neville nodded and hurried to the bed, checking once over his shoulder to see if she was following them. He gently eased Draco into it and sat down on a wooden straightbacked chair that appeared beside it.

The Healer came to stand on the opposite side and waved her wand over Draco, muttering under her breath.

Neville watched as lights of various colours rose from the prone figure – myriad combination of blues, yellows, pale greens and whites. But what drew his attention the most was a huge ball of red energy emitting around Draco's stomach. It felt so _alive_ and so_sentient_ that for a moment Neville wondered if he was still sitting on the street somewhere, and hallucinating from poison-of-the-night high.

The Healers soft, scared "Merlin!" brought him back into the present. She was standing further away from the bed, eyes wide, gawping at Malfoy. Neville watched silently as the Healer pulled out a small mechanical device – it looked like one of those transmitter things that muggle "Coppers" carried – from her coat pocket and pressed a button on it.

"Doktor Thomas and Healer Martha report to Ward 51 immediately," she said in hushed but urgent whisper. "It's Code Red."

-x-x-x-

A burly man "Dr. Thomas" in a starched white long coat – which Neville suspected was their uniform – and a scrawny woman with a crooked nose "Healer Martha" in white Healer robes, rushed through the doors and took their places around the bed, muttering under their breaths, wands waving frantically over Malfoy.

While he waited for the Healers to finish their examination, Nevile found himself unconsciously moving closer to his... Malfoy. _Not his Malfoy, just... _Malfoy_._ It seemed that whatever that red ball of energy was, it was calling out to him… and for some inexplicable reason he was responding. The feeling of protectiveness that he felt towards that red sentient ball of energy, coming from Malfoy of all people, outshone what he had felt for the younger students of Hogwarts last year. It was more than what he had felt for his Gran… or Trevor. Hell, if he honest with himself, even his parents.

If he were a little more sober and little less tired – _when did he start feeling dizzy_ – he would have wondered if he was losing his mind. As he wasn't, he didn't. Instead, he waited to be told what the fuck was going on.

It was Dr. Thomas who spoke first. "Mr. Longbottom," he said in a deeply accented voice – Neville looked up from his hands placed in his lap – "Is there someone we can talk to regarding…"

"Mr. Malfoy," Healer Martha prompted.

"… Mr. Malfoy's condition?"

Neville incredulously looked up at him. _Doesn't this man read the newspaper?_

Thankfully, Healer Martha came to his rescue. "Actually, Dr. Thomas, Mr. Malfoy is a… He's comes from the Losing Side," she said, quietly. "His father was Kissed in Azkaban a while back, and his mother killed herself immediately afterwards. As for Malfoy himself…" she gestured at the figure on the bed. "He has been out of the public eye since the Trials ended. Everyone was of opinion that he had moved to France to escape the Press, but according to the French reporters, he never showed…"

Dr. Thomas nodded. "Surely, there must be someone who can take his responsibility…" the question was asked to the room at large, but without hoping for an answer.

"What's going on?" Neville asked, quietly.

The Doktors ignored the question, instead talking quietly amongst themselves discussing his "condition" and the possible solutions.

Neville rubbed his wearily temple. It was throbbing now, his hand itched with a desperate _need_ to touch Malfoy's belly. Whatever that red energy had been, it was practically begging for him to come closer. And he was fighting it with everything he had. '_Is this what throwing off an Imperius feels like?'_ he wondered.

He looked at the three Healers huddled at the foot of the bed… it seemed so far away, like the far end of the tunnel. He strained to hear the quiet conversation the three Doktors were having, but could only catch the snippets.

"Parasitic..." Dr. Thomas was saying. "... draining the life out of... We have no choice but to..."

"Surely, you don't mean..." Agatha replied, aghast. "There has to be another way..."

"The Press will tear into him," Martha added, glowering at the wall behind the bed. "Bloody Vultures…"

"Poor boy..." Agatha shook her head in sympathy. "To have been through so much at such an young age..."

"I'm afraid, it's no longer in our hands," Dr. Thomas said with an air of finality. "The patient needs long term care. We have to contact Mr. Kingsley..."

"No, don't do that," Neville spoke up, as a sharp wave of pure blinding _panic_ coursed through him. "I'll take his responsibility," to his own surprise. _Where had that come from?_

The Doktors stopped their discussion and stared at him. Agatha, who had known him from childhood, muttered a confused "Neville?"

"I found him," Neville shrugged nonchalantly. "And I have the money to pay for whatever treatments he needs. Besides, I don't think the Ministry will be too happy to provide for a back-from-the-dead ex-Death Eater. As it is they are claiming a severe decifit over having to rebuild half the city." The pain was unbearable… _it's so easy to just give in, _his mind taunted. _You know you want to, Neville_._You _want_ to give in._

_Fuck it! _He stood up and walked over to stand beside the Healers, and reached out to touch Draco's stomach. The fog lifted, and a calm settled over him. He breathed a sigh of relief, almost sagging down beside the blond. The action was not lost on the three people with him.

Someone in the next bed coughed. Neville realized what he was doing and snatched his hand back. The pain returned, but it seemed duller than before... almost reluctant. "What's wrong with him?" he asked again, a little louder and firmer. "If I am paying for it, I have a right to know."

All the three Healers looked at him, dumbstruck, then at each other, as if mentally drawing straws. Then Dr. Agatha spoke up. "Actually…" she looked uneasily at her colleagues, who silently gave her a go ahead – Neville watched the exchange with some interest – "Mr. Malfoy is…based on the extent of his injuries..." she let her voice trail off, then took a deep breath and started again. "Your observation was not far off the mark. Our initial diagnosis shows that Mr. Malfoy has been victim of severe prolonged physical and sexual abuse."

Neville nodded silently._ It didn't a genius to figure _that _out... you just had to _look _the man_. He perched beside Malfoy, taking a thin pale hand between his own. _It seemed so natural… so __normal__._ The pain vanished, replaced with a sense of peace... and something else. _Hope? _He had a severe urge to caress the stomach again, but he ignored it. He could actually _feel_ a petulant frown coming from the comatose man. He smiled to himself, then raised his head.

"There's more, isn't it?" he asked, finally giving in to the urge to touch the belly. He didn't know but somehow, it felt more **_right_** than _anything_ he had ever done in his life. If it had been a cat, Neville could've sworn it was purring. "Something you are not telling me."

"Well…" The Healer now looked nervous. "It is seems that whoever tortured Mr. Malfoy wasn't contented with just physical aspect of the abuse. It seems his mind has been toyed with... Memory alteration," she clarified, seeing in his confused expression. "Obliviated... maybe fed anew who knows... People who have been under Imperius for a long time also show some of these symptoms... We may need to carry out furthur tests to determine the true extent of the damage," she hastily added, taking his absolute horrification.

Neville gulped and looked at his former bully. _He hated the git, but this… whoever had done had this had no humanity._ He thought about his parents, sleeping two floors below them. He sensed there was even more to whatever the Healers had discovered.

"And…?" he prompted, again. The Healer looked at him, looking for all the world like a stunned Hippogriff, her mouth working noiselessly. "You can tell me," he repeated slowly, hoping to sound reassuring. "I can handle it."

It was Dr. Thomas who broke the silence. "Mr. Longbottom," he said, but tone was curt, and just a tad apprehensive, "it seems that your friend here... is pregnant."


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N:** So so so SORRY for such a long long wait. If you must know, I'd almost given up on the story, but it remained in the back of my mind while I procrastinated about, reading _**Glee**_'s **Kurt/Karfosky** and** Sevitus **fics and watched the backlog of all the shows I'd missed because I was procrastinating about. So, now that I've nothing else to do... I have finally decided to start writing again...

And I know it's a very very very short chapter, but I needed something to ease me back into the game. Don't worry the others won't be as short. So without further ado...

* * *

**Chapter 3**

Neville hated the basements.

From the age of 6 when Uncle Algie had accidently locked him overnight with one of his experimental Snares, Neville had been terrified of the damp, dark, underground areas. It hadn't helped that the most fearsome Potions Master to ever walk the hallways of Hogwarts had made his life hell for 6 years in the dungeons of the Institution. Not only that, the dungeons were also the dominion of the Slytherins. The Snakes who, for 6 long years, had tried to break him… and spent the whole of last year holding those pieces together… stitching him… making him into what he was today.

Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom may have gotten the rewards and accolades but Neville was the only one who knew about how Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass _seduced_ Carrows' _guests_, so they wouldn't feel the need to turn to younger students for their perverted games… so other houses would have no idea how bad it really was. Neville himself had wielded the wand that had stitched up Blaise Zabini's torn rectum because Poppy Pomphrey had been forbidden by the _good people_ of the Light Side to not accept Death Eater patients.

Then there was Gregory Goyle who always goaded Crabbe to throw frantic and useless Crucios at him so Amycus wouldn't feel the need to punish him further. Pansy Parkinson who had acted as his nursemaid, cleaning his filth and patching him up so he could walk up to the infirmary without bleeding to death. Milicent Bulstrode who had, on more than one occasion, dragged him up to the Common Room when he was too spent to even stand on his feet…

And Headmaster Snape. Headmaster Snape to whom he owed his life… and the very existence of the Wizarding World.

Neville remembered them all... in spite of all the drugs and potions and mind numbing alcohol concoctions he stuffed into himself, he always remembered how much he... and the Wizarding World owed the toe-licking scum of Hogwarts... her Snakes. The beaten, downtrodden snakes who had never been given a choice to choose a side and had still _survived. _ Snakes who, inspite of being hated and doubted and discared, had held up the foundation of Hogwarts from deep within the enemy lines.

Resilience, survival, hope… those were the words Neville associated with Slytherins.

And it was to them he owed Malfoy and his child's recovery.

-x-x-x-

Longbottom Family Archives were situated in the lower basements of the Longbottom Family Manor, occupying the size of a small Muggle flat. The entrance to the Archives was private and sealed, keyed only to the magical signature of the reigning Patriarch and his spouse.

That is where Neville found himself one week after he found Draco Malfoy lying in middle of Knockturn Alley, barely alive and pregnant. _Pregnant! _ Neville still couldn't wrap his head around the fact that Draco Malfoy, the poncy prat and bane of his existence for six long years, was pregnant. No wonder, the first time he had heard the words, he had burst out laughing.

_It was Dr. Thomas who broke the silence. "Mr. Longbottom," he said, but tone was curt, and just a tad apprehensive, "it seems that your friend here... is pregnant."_

"_Neville?" Healer Agatha slowly ventured, reaching a cautious hand towards him. "Are you alright?"_

_Neville looked up, wiping his impromptu tears, still snickering and nodded, subconsciously reaching out to pat Malfoy's "pregnant" belly. "Yeah," he replied, trying to get his laughter under wraps. "No really, Madam, what the heck is wrong with Malfoy here?" he asked._

_Dr. Agatha shook her head. "We are not joking Neville, the poor lad is really pregnant. See that red light?" She muttered something under her breath and waved her wand over Malfoy. The red ball of light that had enraptured him from the first heartbeat sprang up like those holo-thingies from those Captain Kirk movies Dean was addicted to. "This means there is life in there."_

_That seemed to rouse Neville. "But… but…" he spluttered looking between the Healers. "He's a bloke!" he argued, "A bloke with a cock, in case that escaped your notice. Blokes don't get pregnant, girls do," snatching his hand when he realized that he was once again pawing Malfoy's pregnant belly._

"_Mr. Longbottom," Dr. Thomas enunciated, like he was talking to very slow five-year old. "Pureblooded Wizards can get pregnant. It's an odd genetic anomaly, I'm afraid. Like vestigial tail, or a third nipple, among the Muggles. There is at least one such individual reportedly rumoured to be in every Oldblood family."_

"_My family doesn't," Neville automatically protested._

"_Actually…" Healer Martha interrupted "Your great-great-grandfather Bernard was born of a man. My great-grandmother was the midwife," she added, answering his silent question._

_Neville was sure his eyes had bugged out like those Muggle cartoons Ron's father was fond of. "What?!" Neville was sure he was really hallucinating now. "How… how is that even possible? And why do I not know about it?"_

"_Be real, Mr. Longbottom," Healer Martha snapped. "Homosexuality maybe common these days, but in those days it was not. And even if no one cared about their Lord being a queer, to find that the Lord is a begetter and a bearer…" her words trailed off, but Neville got the gist. Even today, being gay was fine, being a bottom was not. And if the news leaked that the Lord of the Manor was a pillow-biter… he could just imagine what a scandal that would be. He nodded unsurely._

"_So Malfoy's a'right, then?" he asked gazing at the now-fading red-light. "You all know what to do if it's not that uncommon, right?"_

_Dr. Agatha shook her head sadly. "It's not that simple. Wizards pregnancies, unlike in women, are sustained due to the Carrier's magic…"_

"_And Malfoy has no magic to speak of," Neville completed the horrific thought, as a sharp current passed through him and he suddenly realised that it happened only when the foetus felt threatened. Huh! "But… but surely there's something that you can do. I mean, we can't just let the… the baby… die…" he said. He had never ever thought that he would be addressing to the spawn of Malfoy as a "baby", or be concerned about its well-being. Well, it was not time to think of that now._

_Dr. Thomas smiled tightly. "Fortunately, there is a solution, Mr Longbottom," he said. "Right now, Mr. Malfoy is parasitic to the foetus' growth. He has been inadvertently sucking the life out of it. But if we bind his magic and separate the child from the mother, we can prevent it. Mr. Malfoy, however, will have to live a life of a squib. Or…" he looked repentant for a second, before he gathered his resolve. "Or… we can abort the chil—"_

"_No!" Neville denied as a sharp Cruciatus-like shudder passed over him. He wouldn't be responsible for more deaths, even if it was a Malfoy. __"No, No! That… that magic binding will suffice. What do I have to do?"_

"_For now… nothing," Dr Thomas smiled the same tight smile. "Go home and rest, Mr. Longbottom. Lord knows we have some very difficult months ahead of us."_

That is how Neville found himself in the underground levels of his haunted mansion.

He figured if great-great-great-grandfather Algenon had given birth to a child, it would have to be recorded in the family bible. Also, the progress reports of the pregnancy might be found in the archives the . Merlin only knew outside of Healer Martha – and her great-grandmother's sealed case files – he, and Algenon, were Malfoy's only hope.

So he wiped a hand across his face and trudged through the rolls and rolls of yellowed parchments and scriptured linen, hoping for some clue to help them.

* * *

**A/N 2**: I'll try to update at least one a week, if not sooner... and yes, I am going OOC and begging. Please Review. They provide an excellent balm to my ego and motivate me to keep going. Also I'd really love to hear your thoughts.


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